


Spiraling obsession

by ShamelessOne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alive Tom Riddle Sr, Alive merope gaunt, Anal Sex, Bottom Evan Rosier, Bottom Tom Riddle, Deepthroating, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Masturbation, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Going to Hell, Improper use of Cruciatus Curse, Insanity, Kinky, M/M, Narcissism, Narcissistic personality behavior, Nonexistent morals, Obsession, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, POV First Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, Possessive Evan Rosier, Possessive Rosier Sr, Professor Tom Riddle, Sane Tom Riddle, Threats of Violence, Top Evan Rosier, Top Rosier Sr, Top Tom Riddle, Violence, Yandere Evan Rosier, Yandere Rosier Sr, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShamelessOne/pseuds/ShamelessOne
Summary: Summary: Salazar Slytherin’s blood is not so diluted in the Gaunt bloodline that Merope Gaunt is rendered practically a squib. So what happens when a delusional Witch falls in love with a handsome man, with magic enough at her disposal to use the Unforgivable curses and lack of morals - stemming from her upbringing - stopping her from doing so, and more importantly maintaining it? Simple; Imperio her husband into loving her.This changes the game.
Relationships: Tom Riddle & Rosier Sr., Tom Riddle / Evan Rosier, Tom Riddle/Rosier Sr.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Spiraling obsession

**Summary: Salazar Slytherin’s blood is not so diluted in the Gaunt bloodline that Merope Gaunt is rendered practically a squib. So what happens when a delusional Witch falls in love with a handsome man, with magic enough at her disposal to use the Unforgivable curses and lack of morals - stemming from her upbringing - stopping her from doing so? Simple; Imperio her husband into loving her.**

**This changes the game.**

* * *

**[Eton College, parish of Eton, near Windsor in Berkshire. Wednesday, the 15 th November 1939]**

The smell of old leather and of yellowed aged paper was pungent, yet Tom Riddle barely paid it any mind. His formidable mind whirled and buzzed as he perused the ancient content, reveling in the absorption of knowledge of yore. **_[The Book of Witches]_** by Oliver Madox Hueffer laid its secrets bare. Tom Riddle believed his mother to be a witch; after all, how could she have managed to ensnare a young and handsome heir to a high-ranking British Fortune 100 Family, which boasted links to the Crown, with her atrocious looks and destitute background if not for witchcraft?

Let it not be said that Tom Riddle lacked poise and refinement, yet loathe as he was to admit it he was at his wit's ends and nearly wanted to tear out his hair when faced with the simple truth that there was no evidence of devil worship or summoning from beyond on his mother's side. Certifiable insanity was one thing, true, calling forth demons was another matter altogether.

Therefore, he ravenously read the book, until no more words gushed forth from the worn pages.

He closed it with maybe more force than necessary. It was... lackluster, to say the least. Were he a lesser human, he would have growled or vented his frustration; as it were, he simply tapped his forefinger against the tome's leather-bound cover arrhythmically as he considered this conundrum. This was quite vexing.

Tom absentmindedly fingered his tie; black with Eton blue stripes. The premise was interesting, yet the execution was lacking. The content could be summarized as only unscientific gathering of old tales which certainly _did not happen_ , a far cry from what Tom had been expecting.

Sighing minutely, he picked up the book and got up, his chair soundlessly sliding across the polished flooring, He soon reached the shelf he had picked it from, and delicately put the tome back in. As he was about to leave, his eyes caught another title which piqued his interest.

**[The twelve uses of Dragon Blood]** by a certain Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

The name of the author was ridiculous enough. The content of the book was even more farfetched. It was so ridiculously well-made, though, that it led Tom to wonder.

The thirteen-year-old boy wondered, and wondered, and took notes. When he ran out of paper, he circled a word with his pen and flinched when words appeared at the bottom of the page. It read:

_“Please do not write on this book, property of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”_

Now, there was the possibility that it was a practical joke, or that they had written in invisible ink below, and that the contact of his ink made it appear. But it was really unlikely.

Still, more likely than the other scenario.

That magic did exist.

* * *

**(One month later)**

It took Tom three weeks to manage to track down the name. Obviously, nobody ‘normal’ had ever heard of him, yet one old woman knew of him. She answered an online advertisement that Tom issued, promising lots of money for information on the man.

After discussing with her, Tom learned a few things.

First, the man was a Wizard.

Second, Hogwarts does exist and teaches young Witches and Wizards how to wield their powers. It sent out invitations when children reached the right age.

Third, she was a squib. Whatever that meant.

Fourth, he thought he was a muggleborn at first.

Fifth, he had magic, since he could will things into happening with a mere thought. He told her as much and showed her proof.

She said no child who bore magical blood would be ignored by the Hogwarts registry. He asked if there had ever been exceptions recorded in history, she had said none. He asked then how they deliver the invitation. She said that someone was supposed to come, but only if the recipient of the letter was a muggleborn.

So sixth, he was not muggleborn. He was fairly certain his father was not magical, yet his mother…

This lent further credence to the idea that his mother was a witch.

He thanked her and gave her a generous sum of money for her help.

The travel back home was uneventful at best, the coachman trying to make small talk but Tom was not currently in a mood to indulge his plebeian whims. He saw pastoral fields gave way to a forest, then to a grand domain. Little Hangleton, the village his family practically owned, bar for foul and wretched Gaunt shack. It was awfully rural, and the pastoral landscape did nothing to alleviate this feeling of boredom he always had when he entered this wretched town.

He had always thought he was destined to grander ventures than gallivanting in the middle of nowhere.

The manor came into view. It was built atop a hill to offer a vantage point over the surroundings as if lording its dominance over the region. There was a tall brick wall and a wrought iron gate with spikes atop. A fleur-de-lis was carved on the left side of the gate, on a supporting pillar, and Richard the Lionheart’s crest on the other side, alluding to the fact that House Riddle was affiliated to both the French and British royalty. 

The garden was well-tended, as always. The season was colder, now being halfway through December, and Tom’s breath got misty as he alighted from the coach without the help of the coachman (he was fiercely independent,) and he stepped over the small path leading to the front door.

He went to do his daily rituals, and knocked on his father’s office door, entering after receiving the beckon.

“Where are grandfather and grandmother?” Tom asked, a hot cup of tea – no sugar obviously, Tom hated everything sweet with a passion - held in his hand. He had not seen his grandparents in the lobby.

“Entertaining the prime minister. He is looking for funds for the new war effort against Germany. Three months ago, they did send a cease and desist order, which went ignored largely by this Hitler fellow.”

Tom hummed noncommittally.

“I am a wizard,” Tom said without preamble.

His father smiled indulgently as he penned a letter with penmanship that would make many college professors jealous.

“Tommy, aren’t you too old to believe in witches, wizards and dragons?”

Tom’s lip curled. He hated being called Tommy, it was degrading. Reining in his temper, he countered. “I thought I was before I realized very recently I could do this.”

As he said that, the pen held tightly in Tom Riddle Sr.’s hand began to wiggle like a snake, then floated when the man released it in affright.

“T-Tom, what is _this_?!” The man asked, his dark eyes shaking visibly and his face going a few shades paler, now reaching ghostly pallor.

Tom frowned. Terror. He had been expecting it. It did not mean he was pleased by it. He willed the pen to go back and it settled on the desk with a soft sound.

“This is proof, undeniable, irrefutable proof that I am _special_. If you can’t appreciate that, we have nothing more to speak of, have we not? I’ll take my leave then.”

The last image he had was of his father looking down with shaking hands. As if he were afraid to even look at him. It made something thrum in his chest. Was this what he desired, fear? He wanted obedience. He wanted acknowledgment. He wanted people to know that he was the man who would walk farther along the path of greatness than any man or woman before and after him.

He did not want fear. Fear was detrimental to his goals. It numbed the senses, made people do irrational acts to avoid reprisal. Then if not fear, what remained? How could he make people obey his orders? How could he breed loyalty? Such unconditional loyalty that people would rather die than to defect?

The two males did not speak for two more days. Meanwhile, Tom had a conversation with his mother that proved to be… interesting, to say the least.

He pushed open the door to the room she was confining herself in these days. The blinds were closed and a thick repulsive smell invaded Tom’s nostrils as soon as he entered. It looked – or rather smelled like – the staff had not changed the drapes, and also that his mother had refused to open the window.

His mother was lying still on the bed, her gaunt figure made apparent through the fine clothes she wore. A lone candle burned on the bedside table, nearly extinguished. This sight and the poor sanitary conditions were nearly morbific to Tom, and he wondered if he should pass the threshold. He decided to not test it.

“Is that you Tom? I can’t see.”

Her eyesight was rather poor. It was an affliction which seemed to baffle the family physician, since there seemed to be no problem with her ocular system or nerves, and her insulin levels were normal, indicating no diabetes. She always had a good tension, too. Which meant the source of this ailment was not of common knowledge.

“Yes, I am Tom. Your son.” He felt it good to add at the end, since last time she had mixed up the two in a bout of insanity, which had led to consequences he did not want to think about right now.

“Tom Marvolo… May I touch your face?”

Tom frowned. That was unexpected. “I’d rather you not. I don’t want to get filth on me.”

Merope chuckled weakly. “Just as rude and arrogant as your father. And mean as my own. You’re not the sweet child I envisioned. Do you know I nearly died giving birth to you?”

Tom grinned. It was not a nice smile. “Oh, you already told me, as if I should be grateful for being brought to this world, which I did not ask for mayhap I should remind you. And if you had died, it simply means you were not destined to do something great. I know for one, that I will **_never die_**. Now are you a witch or not? _Tell the truth!_ ”

Her breath caught in her throat, Tom saw it. He saw her seize as if prey to a nameless terror. Two words left her mouth and Tom grinned in unadulterated joy. There it was. Proof that he was _special_ , far above the rabble that was the flea-infested masses of Little Hangleton, barely better than rodents the whole lot of them.

She regained a regular breathing pattern as Tom crowed his victory internally.

“Compulsion... W-who taught you that?” she stuttered slightly, her voice still shaky, her forehead paler and drenched with sweat. It seemed to run in much deeper than this. There was something else afoul than simple fear of being outed as a witch.

Enlightenment hit Tom like a bomb from the Red Baron. He smirked as he put two and two together; the mind which would make him the smartest student Hogwarts had ever seen walking her halls leading him to a logical conclusion.

“Oh mother… You betwitched father, did you not? Compulsion, was it? He was arranged to marry a girl of noble upbringing, a certain Cecilia. Coincidentally, after meeting with you in person he dropped all his plans. How did you do it? How did you coerce someone to do your biding? How did you manage to convince him? **_Tell m_** -“

“Please Tommy, no, I was wrong. Please don’t make me do that. Please don’t tell your father,” she asked in panic, raising with difficulty from her bed and making her way to Tom, ambling and tottering all the way.

She put shaky, emaciated hands on his shoulders and tightened them until the grip hurt. She smelled even fouler this close and Tom nearly recoiled in disgust. She seemed on edge, too. Maybe she was seconds away from throttling him, who knew what went on in her ailing mind?

Tom smiled despite this all. Hook line and sinker. “Teach me. Teach me all there is to know about this Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Teach me about _magic_.”

* * *

**_(Rosier’s POV - Third Person)_ **

It had been as uneventful a diner as any in the castle. Until _he_ came. There were quite a few words to describe him the Rosier heir could use, yet they all seemed to pale in comparison.

Because he was all of that and even more.

Handsome, as if the gods themselves had carved his face, aristocratically pale like marble, tall and straight as an Ionian column. Much more, he walked with such confidence it seemed inconceivable that this was the first time he had seen him and therefore that this was no doubt a new student here.

It should have irked Rosier to see him watch the room as if he were a Lord overseeing his serfs, yet it did not, and the overbearing way he strutted to the stool to get sorted brought out the animalistic part in him that wanted him to bow his head and submit to avoid drawing the gaze of a more dangerous predator.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle-Gaunt,” Headmaster Dippet called out. It was unusual to have a sorting one week later than the start of the year, yet not completely unheard of, especially during wartime.

This had the effect of a Fiendfyre curse spreading around, arousing passions and lighting fire in the previously dull eyes of the students gathered. It was the same for Rosier, who straightened his back imperceptibly. The Gaunt family was known for being part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, claiming direct descent from Salazar Slytherin himself.

The Riddle part was left aside for further consideration. Surely some minor Wizarding family? There could be no way for the heir to Slytherin to be a half-blood, right?

The hat did not even touch his head that it screamed “Slytherin”. As if there had been any doubt. The dark-haired boy strolled toward their table with all the grace and poise of a pure-blooded heir to a Noble House.

Coincidentally enough, he chose to sit on the chair beside Rosier’s, and in front of his sister’s.

“Chrysanthos Rosier. And this is my sister.” Chrysanthos meant Golden Flower. A ridiculous name, Rosier thought, not manly enough, yet it was a perfect mix between his family name and his appearance, for his locks were made of spun gold.

“Druella Rosier.” Morning dew was much better in comparison, and at least feminine.

Tom nodded. “Tom Riddle-Gaunt, as I am sure you’ve heard. Most pleased to make your acquaintance; Chrysanthos, Druella.” He had a very nice voice. It was soothing to the ears, and quiet yet not shy. As if he had no need to raise his voice to command attention, which he had done the moment he sat at their table.

“I thought House Gaunt died out. They have been rather – how should I say it tactfully – discreet since the end of last century,” Avery said with a raised eyebrow.

“As is expected of tramps living in squalor and partaking in inbreeding. No, of tramps indulging in so much inbreeding that their magic is barely enough to light a bonfire wordlessly, mother told me. Thankfully father brought some fresh blood to the mix,” Tom acquiesced.

Whispers broke out at this declaration. “Half-blood?” Mulciber asked with a curl of the lip.

Tom smiled, his eyes creasing slightly and his mouth forming attractive dimples. He really was a beautiful boy.

“I apologize if my blood status offended you,” then sparing him no more words to the boy’s aggravation, Tom turned toward Rosier.

“I’ve looked at the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s family trees as per mother’s suggestion, and interestingly enough, House Rosier traces back its history to Louis XVII of France. Mayhap you know who he is?”

To his shame Rosier did not. Yet he still sat there in a daze, entranced by the words coming out of the boy’s mouth.

Tom smiled pleasantly, his honeyed voice a steady flow. “He was a French king, in title only. Muggleborn, he would have died from illness at the age of 10 had he not awakened to his powers. Magic purged his body from disease, yet the time of Kings in France was ended. He married someone from the Malfoy family ancestry, I believe, and had four children, three of whom married into the Black family, among others. One of them, however, was repudiated for having pro-muggle proclivities, blasted off the family tapestry. He was chased out of France, and escaped to Britain where he sought asylum. There, he married into the British royal family. They had children, who had children, who married into the Riddle family, a century ago.

“The point being this. We are all distant cousins. Let’s try to get along, shall we?”

All the while, during his speech, dark magic – or as some said - the _moste evile of magicks,_ wafted off him in nearly palpable waves. It was still juvenile, proof of a young wizard who had only recently come into his power, yet it was overbearing since they were not _used_ to feeling it. It made Rosier and Mulciber and Druella and countless others who were close enough to feel it lean closer to feel it better.

Rosier snapped out of his daze when a perfect hand landed on his shoulder. It was such a plebeian gesture, yet Rosier could feel something dangerous curl in the pit of his stomach. A hot weight, different from revulsion.

“Would you mind showing me around?”

“No, of course not. It would be my pleasure,” Rosier answered automatically, the words leaving his mouth in a conditioned reflex. He realized then, with sudden clarity, that he would do anything this boy asked him to, and do it with the utmost dedication if he could feel more of this dark, sweet magic which was as tantalizing as Ambrosia.

It should have terrified him, how powerless he felt in his presence.

Instead, it aroused him terribly and he had to shift slightly on his chair and bite his lip to stop himself from moaning when the other boy’s magic seemed to stroke his skin lovingly, as if pleased to command such obedience from the fair-haired boy.

When a Slytherin prefect, Abraxas Malfoy, told him he would be sharing a room with Tom for the remainder of his education at Hogwarts, Chrysanthos – or Chrys for short – wanted to either thank him or curse him.

How would he survive being in his proximity?

\----

In this chapter, Tom is 13 (14 in 3 months), Rosier is 14 (since 2 months).

**Author's Note:**

> Awwww shit, I did it again. I always found the HP fandom fascinating, and I wanted to explore a little Tom Riddle's era and the characters we hear zilch about.
> 
> Not sure where it's going to head, but I have a few chapters playing out in my head.
> 
> Next chapter is gonna get kinky :)


End file.
